


The Thing About Barrow

by The_Lake_King



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Children, Coming Out, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, M/M, POV First Person, Period-Typical Homophobia, References To Canon Suicide Attempt, Thomas Barrow is Good With Children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:48:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28394898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lake_King/pseuds/The_Lake_King
Summary: Barrow has a scar. He won’t show it to me, he says because it’s not pretty, but his ears aren’t pretty either and he shows me those all the time.George Crawley finds a friend in Thomas Barrow, as told in three vignettes.Teen rating for some language and adult-ish references.
Relationships: George Crawley/Original Character(s), Thomas Barrow & George Crawley, Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Comments: 20
Kudos: 136





	The Thing About Barrow

**Author's Note:**

> So this fell out of my brain today. I thought of holding it back and editing it more, but I feel like I'll just pick at it too much so here you go.

Barrow has a scar. He won’t show it to me, he says because it’s not pretty, but his ears aren’t pretty either and he shows me those all the time. But I suppose no one’s ears are pretty because they all look a bit like boiled cabbage. I hate boiled cabbage. Barrow’s ears are less cabbage-y than Carson’s though, and less hairy. I told him so and he laughed before he went back to being sad. Barrow is sad a lot, but he tries to pretend like he isn’t. Which is awfully silly of him. He’s a very silly man. I brought him an orange because he’s ill and I saw his scar. It isn’t pretty. People say he has the flu but that’s a lie, because I heard Anna say that that’s what they were _telling_ people, and you don’t say things like that when it’s true and you don’t need to put bandages on for the flu. Mama talked with him like I wasn’t there. She does that a lot. Barrow doesn’t do it unless he has to, and that’s why I like him. Something happened that no one wants to talk about and I’m scared but if I tell anyone but Sybbie about it they’ll say I’m silly or I’m not old enough to understand. They always do that. I hate it. What if he’s dying and everybody just keeps pretending? I want to go down and read his book with him but I’m not allowed.

He left. It isn’t fair. He told me he would always be my friend, but when I asked Mama if I should send him a letter she said ‘I don’t think so. He can send letters downstairs.’ But if I’m his friend why shouldn’t I have a letter? Now no one will play aeroplanes with me. Mama wants me to play with Henry (and call him Papa) but it’s not the same. I’m going to run away and find Barrow. Sybbie can come with me, if she likes.

Uncle Tom found us. He was worried but Mama was _very_ angry. Auntie Edith asked why I shouldn’t be allowed to send letters to Barrow and then Donk said it wasn’t _proper_ and they all started doing that thing where they talk about two things at once but no one admits it. Sybbie says that that’s called in-new-end-o, and when I asked Carson about it he turned purple like a radish so I think she’s right. 

I miss Barrow. He sent me a book with funny poems for my birthday called _When We Were Very Young_. I like the one about the bears and the one about water lilies. Uncle Tom likes the one about the boy whose mother won’t behave herself and he reads it at Mama. I want Barrow to read it to me. He does the best voices.

Barrow came to the wedding! He looks funny in a regular suit. He had lots of time to play aeroplanes when nobody was watching, but then we had to go to bed but something happened because everyone’s sad about Carson even though he’s fine.

Everyone is sad about Carson even though he’s not really going anywhere, which is annoying because it means that Sybbie and me aren’t supposed to be happy about Barrow coming back even though today is absolutely the best day and he’s going to read me the book later. Nobody was so sad when Barrow left and he _really_ left, and I don’t understand. Barrow says it’s because people love Carson. I told him that I loved _him_ though, and I think that might have been the wrong thing to say because he cried.

. . .

Barrow has a friend named Richard Ellis. That isn’t new, but they live together now which is rather unusual. No one saw fit to tell me this until I came back for summer break, which is insulting, really. Sybbie thinks that my surprise is dreadfully funny, but then again, she would. She often laughs at me when the subject of Mr. Ellis comes up, and I feel that I’m missing something. She’s annoying. And now she has _breasts_ , which is terrible. They just popped up since Christmas like bloody mushrooms and girls shouldn’t be allowed to just _do_ that without warning a person.

I think I wouldn’t mind living with Peter, if I didn’t have to get married to somebody rich and be an earl. It might be nice to have a cottage. We could get a cat. Peter is my very best friend from Eton. He’s a little odd, and he likes to hold hands and hug more than I think most people our age do, but it’s all sort of nice. We shared a dormitory in first year, and at first we didn’t like each other. He thought I was a ponce and I got annoyed at him for stealing food all the time and leaving crumbs everywhere he goes. But then he stole me a cake because I was sad one day, so I taught him how to win at cards (courtesy of Barrow) and the rest is history. He has very nice eyelashes. And dimples. And he’s coming to stay with us!

Barrow keeps giving Peter funny looks. No one else would probably notice because it’s very subtle, but he can’t pull the wool over my eyes. I hope he isn’t being snobbish. Peter isn’t even an honourable, as Mama likes to point out, but I don’t see why that means he shouldn’t be my best friend. I’m going to have to spend my whole life putting up with people who I don’t like and don’t like me because I’ll be the Earl of Grantham. Why can’t I have somebody I actually like around to help me find them less annoying? Mrs. Patmore likes Peter. He doesn’t even have to steal from the kitchen, she just gives him things. He’s not going to fit in his bloody cricket whites, the git.

I’ve been a terrible coward. Peter kissed me in the orchard and I ran away. But I didn’t know what else to do! Boys can’t _do_ that. But Peter _did_ , and it felt…good. Which is why I ran away. He has soft lips and I like the way he smells and is this what people are talking about when they say they fancy a girl? He tasted like cake. I think Peter must always taste like cake. Barrow would know what to do. And he won’t tell, I know he won’t. Not if I ask him not to.

Barrow’s already left for his half-day, which is very inconvenient. Mrs. Hughes asked me what was wrong, but I brushed her off with something about it being a man-thing. At least it isn’t a long walk to the cottage, even if it means going by the orchard again. I always go in through the back door, which is where Mr. Ellis has his geraniums. I can hear crying. I’m not normally in the habit of peeking and listening at open windows, but, well, desperate times and all that.

Peter is sitting at the kitchen table with Barrow while Mr. Ellis makes tea. Peter’s face is in Barrow’s collar.

“It’s gonna be alright,” Barrow says, rubbing his back. “I’ll talk to him.” His voice is calm, but he looks scared.

“I’m so stupid!” Peter sobs. It hurts that he’s crying.

“No, you made a mistake. We’ve all been there. I’ve been a lot stupider, and I mean _unbelievably_ stupider, and I’m still here, eh?”

Mr. Ellis snorts.

“Dick, either help, shut up, or go fuck around with your plants.”

“Sorry, love.” He looks terribly contrite. I didn’t know his face could _do_ that. He’s usually smirk-y.

Love.

_Oh._

Oh bloody hell. Sybbie’s right, I am a moron. I have to sit on the back stoop for a moment. It all seems terribly obvious in retrospect. Of course men who are old friends don’t lean on each other like that when they couldn’t possibly be _that_ drunk. Of course a normal man doesn’t move across the country to live with an old friend so they can play house and bicker like a married couple. Because that’s what they are, really. A married couple. And it stands to reason they wouldn’t be alone in the world. I’ve heard of men being ‘abnormal’ or ‘lavender’ before, of course, but that sounded so disgusting and strange. Is it really just what regular people do but with two men?

“Well, that’ll save time.” Mr. Ellis is standing in the doorway. He looks nervous. “Would you like to come in, George?”

“Yes, please.”

Peter bites his lip and looks up at me like I’m going to hit him. Barrow tightens his arm around him. I’ve seen Barrow be protective before, many times. I’ve never felt like he was protecting someone from me.

“I’m sorry I ran away.” It seems like the right place to start.

“Are you going to tell?” Peter whispers.

“No.”

Everybody relaxes. I don’t like that they were all scared because of something I might do.

“I’m glad to hear you say that, Master George.” Barrow has his upstairs face on, and I hate it. I didn’t want to ask dinner-service Barrow about this.

“Barrow?”

“Yes?”

“What does it—what does it mean, that…” I sound stupid.

“It doesn’t _mean_ , anything,” Barrow says carefully. “Just that Peter got the wrong impression. If you go around holding hands with people, they tend to do that. Some men like men, and some women like women. That’s all. And no matter what the law says, they’re not hurting anyone. I…I rather thought you knew that, Georgie.” The service face slips and what’s underneath is worse. He thinks I might hate him. It’s not fair.

“What does it mean if I liked it? If I liked it a lot?” I sound so bloody stupid.

Mr. Ellis’ eyebrows have met his hairline.

Barrow licks his lips. “Um, well, that means that you might be one of those people. But you’re young, and boys at your age feel different things—”

“People like you and Mr. Ellis.”

He pauses for a long moment. “Yes.”

“Why’d you run away if you liked it?” Peter’s big brown eyes are all red-rimmed. “I thought you were going to tell the police.” He laughs a little, but it’s shaky and weak, which is horrible. Peter’s laugh should be like music.

“I was scared.”

“Oh,” he says softly. I like the way he’s looking at me now. I’m realizing that this is the way he usually looks at me, and it’s not normal either.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Peter says, smiling a bit. “I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to scare you. So…do you want to…try it again?”

“Jesus Christ,” Barrow mutters.

Breakfast the next day is strange. I usually like having a secret with Barrow or Sybbie or even Uncle Tom, so we can peek at each other over teacups and laugh about it with our eyes. This feels different. Barrow still looks like he’s been hit in the face with a frying pan. I think I might look like that, too. It’s a good thing Peter is far too busy eating crumpets to be bothered.

“Are you alright Barrow?” Grandpapa asks over the paper.

“Perfectly, my lord.”

Grandpapa frowns. “Come now, man. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

Barrow hesitates. “I imagine you might think me touched, my lord, but there is this little bird around the cottage that I’ve grown very fond of, and it had a near miss yesterday,” he says at last. “Nearly gave me a heart attack. But it turns out the old cat is very fond of it as well. The ordeal kept me up all night, I’m afraid.”

Peter drops his fork.

“Are you going soft for all of God’s creatures in your old age?” Grandpapa asks, chuckling.

“Quite possibly, m’lord.”

. . .

Barrow has many voices. He has his Butler Voice, his Dangerous Voice, his Nurse Barrow Voice, his Quiet Voice, and his Secret Voice, to name a few. Yes, I still call his relaxed natural accent his Secret Voice within the confines of my own head. I think he would smile if he knew it. Perhaps he already does. Right now, he’s using his Butler Voice, though he might slip into his Dangerous Voice if the doctor insinuates that he shouldn’t be here one more time…and, there it is. Off goes the doctor. The ceiling is horribly bright.

I try to reach out with my left hand, but find that I can’t. That will take getting used to. One of the myriad people who have been swirling around me like fish in a bowl commented that if my face and my loins were more or less intact, then I should be fit enough for earldom. I would have laughed had my mouth been working at the time. If only they knew what my loins are prone to getting up to. God, morphine is a hell of a drug.

“What’s the verdict?” I ask. I sound like my throat is made of cardboard. It feels that way, too. 

Barrow props me up and brings a glass of water to my lips. “That you’re one lucky sod. Your cricket days are over, but you should be able to walk well enough. The hand’s more of an unknown, but you might get partial use back with physical therapy.” Hello, Nurse Barrow.

“We match, sort of.” I don’t know why I say it.

“Not the way I’d hoped you’d take after me, Master George.” Quiet Voice. I will never make him carry things with his left hand the way the rest of them do. The rest of them have never caught him soaking it in hot water in his office and chain-smoking with that feral look on his face.

“How’s the plane?”

“You mean the hunk of metal formerly known as property of the RAF?” Secret Voice. “What kind of drugs are they givin’ you?”

“The best of the best.” I shouldn’t be smiling. It makes my lips crack. Fred would think asking after the plane was funny. I shut my eyes because the brightness is making me dizzy.

“Is Fred here? I heard him.”

“He’s under house arrest because he’s a soppy idiot and I’d rather you two didn’t get in trouble. He’s banned from the ward until he can stop wringin’ his hands over ya and whingin’ about his face.” I hear Barrow light a cigarette.

“What happened to his face?”

“He’s got a burn. Something about a fuel line. Didn’t even need to be hospitalized here for it; he’s just on leave. He looks the bloody same, but you’d think he’d been turned into a goblin, the way he carries on.”

I really need to stop smiling. “You must tell him that he still looks like Humphrey Bogart. Got one of those for me?”

Barrow holds the cigarette while I smoke. It’s one of the unique features of the man that he can do such a thing without making one self-conscious. Whether he learned that in service, in the medical corps, or it is something innate and all his own I shall never be certain. I think it is down to the way he keeps talking without babbling, neither avoiding the fact that I lie here bandaged like a mummy nor harping on it. He does not get maudlin like Mama or Fred, strangely endearing as that can be in the latter, nor does he force cheerfulness like Marigold or Caroline. Sybbie has inherited the knack from him, or perhaps from her mother in their shared profession. Wherever it comes from, I am grateful that he conspired to be here, to give me an hour or so to come back to Earth and get my bearings before Other People show up. He reads me Wodehouse, which makes me laugh and think of the way Barrow sometimes calls Richard ‘Jeeves’ when he fusses. Which is really the pot calling the kettle black.

Other People cannot be deterred forever, and eventually I am surrounded by women crying on various parts of me while the men stand misty-eyed. I am told I’m a hero, which is a dubious statement at best. Barrow slips out, like a ghost that can sink into the wallpaper and emerge again when called. I know he will relent and sneak Fred in here at some point. Just like I knew as a boy that if I lost my teddy in the house, it would be returned to me with a toffee slipped under the band of its bowtie. Just like I know that he will be there like a helpful shadow, to aid and comfort and tell me to buck up and get over myself as I learn my body for a second time. He promised me once that he would always be my friend, and Barrow never breaks his promises. Not the ones he makes to me. 

**Author's Note:**

> I highly recommend reading When We Were Very Young by A. A. Milne (Published 1924). Or going back and re-reading it as an adult, whether you have children or not. The poems George mentions are, in order of appearance: 'Lines and Squares', 'Water-Lilies', and 'Disobedience'. 
> 
> My user name is actually taken from a line in 'Water-Lilies', because my A. A. Milne collection was the nearest book when I made this account. The more you know.


End file.
